The afternoon sun glitters like a perennial fireworks display. Somewhere far away, if you strain your ears, a sonorous voice rings out of an old recorder. It bears semblance to a prayer. Music enters, on kitten paws, treading across creamy walls filled with books lining the shelves, poetry pasted on the walls and memories coating the air. And a strand of blue lights that bathe the room in a lightning blue haze at nights.

Night approaches. The moon seeks sanctuary. The clock’s hands turn without stopping to rest.

The walls are a cocoon: to bide the leaden hours, preparing a face to meet the faces to be met. Waiting ties itself in the fine threads of hope. But hope craves the garb of nothingness.

Broken bits of glass and colour, inebriated nerves, shared histories and a black rose tattooed on to skin that grows older. I suture these into a patchwork attire to favour the unfamiliar new shape that stands on the other side of the badly-positioned looking glass.


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